


The Wanderer

by Anathematize



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Flowey is a little shit, Gen, No Reader Romance, No Romance, No Smut, Reader Insert, Sans Being An Asshole, Switch-up, bad times incoming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anathematize/pseuds/Anathematize
Summary: In which climbing up a mountain to run away from your problems doesn't solve a thing.------------------------------------------------------------------------Alternatively:You find yourself in the Underground, dazed and confused. It doesn't help that (nearly) everyone is trying to kill you, or that whenever you die, you find yourself face to face with that flower asshole.Going home is going to be harder than you thought.





	1. In which you meet an overzealous flower

Your breath is steaming in the air. Your shoulders ache from the weight of the backpack you carry, and there is a flashlight clenched in a gloved hand. The gloves don’t do a good job of keeping out the cold, so you curl your fingers into fists to compensate. 

Part of you is screaming that this is a terrible idea. But you staunchly ignore it. And for the first time in a long time, you feel free. The mountain is beautiful and terrifying in the night, all shrouded shadows and darkness from what once was a place of serenity and winter cheer. The moon is high and pearl-like in the night sky. 

You start to climb the mountain, boots crunching through freshly laid snow. The flashlight cuts a steady beam through the dark, and you follow the path marked out by the tour guides, pausing to look for landmarks or signs. You don’t worry about the battery dieing. You’ve got plenty of spares.

It is quiet. Too quiet. All you can hear is the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and eventually, your pants as you start to tire. At least you feel warmer, even if your cheeks and nose are frozen. You are not afraid. The dark does not scare you as much as it did in your bedroom, shrouded around a half-closed closet door. Time seems to be non existent time here, with no watch or sign to signify its passing. You climb and climb until your feet feel like blocks of ice. Your skin is numb. So is your heart.

You are so terribly lonely.

We could turn back, some part of you whispers. They conjure up images of warm beds, hot meals, and a nice, steamy bath. Images of your family flash by, and you shiver. They would be disappointed, you say. The voice hesitates. Disappointed, they agree, but they love you. They did so much for you, and you’ve had so many privileges that most others haven’t been able to appreciate. Think about it. You have a loving family. You have home cooked meals, and you don’t worry about your next meal. You eat whatever you feel like having, and you receive new things on a whim. You have an education, waiting back at home. You are wasting it. You are so lucky. And yet- you squander it? The voice sounds vehement. You try to hold on to the numbness in your heart. And what are you ? it asks. A stupid failure. What are you even good at? It stifles laughter. What a joke!

You dig your fingernails into your palm to drown out your inner dialogue. It doesn’t work. You can’t feel anything in that hand anyways. 

The light from the flashlight is guttering, but you are not disappointed. Shaking fingers slip in the next one, and toss the dud away. Now you’re a litterer on top of being a useless waste of space. You squint your eyes to find it, but it has long disappeared in a snow bank somewhere. 

Running away, aren’t ya? The sardonic voice continues. It doesn’t help. You know that. It only magnifies your problems. And how would I know? That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? You grit your teeth, and continue to trudge through the snow. The trees are thinning , and you can see the slope below, dark and grand. From this height, the trees look like the size of toothpicks. You don’t think you have it in you to turn back. It’s so cold…

You hiss out an exhale. Take a step. And another one. Onwards, ad infinitum.

There is something unusual about this place, you muse. Snow billows around your ankles every step. The cold bites at exposed skin, leaving it red and frozen. You’ve felt it since you stepped foot here. The locals called it a curse. All who climb the mountain never return, they said. You had dismissed it immediately, thinking about old folklore and fairytales, but with more research, you had discovered the news articles on the missing children. (And their eyes were so old.) Part of you was torn between belief and suspicion. Children don’t climb mountains alone without getting lost (and maybe that was what they desired, and in doing so, succeeded in doing?) and yet…

Your thoughts trail off as you look back at the trail. You stumble, then stop. There is no signs to guide your way. The snow looks fresh and unmarked by footprints. You whirl around. Something acrid is creeping up your throat. You are completely, utterly, lost. (Perhaps it is better this way.)

You close your eyes and exhale. You open them, assessing your options.

You don't want to die. Not like this. You know they’re looking for you, frantic and full of panic. (What friends? What family? Who would ever care about a disappointment like you? You’re a crappy friend.)You hope that the voice in your head remains quiet. You don't need your rational mind commenting on your inadequacies. But you are cold and miserable and tired, and no amount of determination would get you through this. You are stuck. So you continue moving forwards.  

There is a cave ahead of you, by the rock face. There is no hesitation in your mind. The wind whistles through the trees.

The light from your flashlight doesn't help much. Straining your eyes to look into the dark, you can make out ice and snow and not much else. Then you see it. The ledge.

You walk towards it, stopping shy from falling. There is a strange part of you that wonders how it'd be like.The hole is gaping, and endlessly dark. You peer into it (carefully). The darkness seems... hungry.

You shake your head, and clap your mitts to your cheeks. The flashlight falls, trailing light like a comet. You remember something vague about judging the height of something by counting the seconds until impact, but the math is not all there. Your head is fuzzy. You want to sleep.

You take a step back, landing on your rump. Idiot! you chide to yourself. But the damage is done. You are lost and half dead. There is no shelter up here, and the night is still young. You are not angry at yourself. Not anymore.

You creep close to the edge again. It'd be so easy, says the voice. You haven't even heard the flashlight clatter to the ground. It'd be painless. And a vision creeps in your mind. Of stepping into nothingness, and feeling the rush of air in your hair while the stars shine down, below. Of how freeing it'd be. Of how everything would become trivial.

Your thoughts stutter. Trying to navigate through them feels like moving through molasses. 

You stumble. _Fuck-_

The darkness feels like an old friend. The air whistles in your ears as you fall. You search for relief or fear or regret. Nothing comes.

 

ooOoOoo

Your first thought is: am I dead? Your second thought: heaven smells like flowers. You lie there for an indeterminate amount of time. 1/0, you think, and immediately banish math puns out of your mind. You feel like defrosted meat. Or freezer burn. Damn.

Something tickles your cheek. You muster the energy to open your eyes, and you are greeted by a sea of golden flowers. You chuckle. Your throat feels raw and bloody. But you are warm, and you are alive. Your emotions war in your mind, and you shove it away.

The smell of flowers is overpowering. You wrinkle your nose, and sit up. A flash of pain leaves you sprawled on your back again, covered in petals. You try more carefully this time. Thankfully you have no severe frostbite or injuries, besides a deep scrape on your left hand. 

To explore or rest… The decision weighs heavily on your mind. Both seem equally tempting. The flowers seem so comfortable… If you slept there, you might never get back up. You shake your head to clear it of the thought. Your feet move almost autonomically forwards. The swish of grass against your ankles is more welcoming than the frost, almost pleasant. It tickles.

If feels like a lazy summer day. You continue forwards in this odd dreamscape, trailing a hand against the pillars you find scattered throughout this place. The stone is worn and warm to the touch.

You stop by a mound of dirt. A single yellow flower is planted there, drooping. Its petals perk up as you approach, and its stem straightens. You blink. The flower has a face. 

"Howdy!" it chirps, saccharinely sweet. "I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower! You're new to the Underworld, aren't ya?"

It’s a talking flower and it has a face and what the heck is going on? You don’t think you are dreaming. It hurts too much. Besides, your dreams never feel realistic. 

You wet your lips. They are cracked.

“You call this place the Underworld, huh,” you rasp. “So are there people living down here, or,” you wave your hand at Flowey, “are they all like you?” You hesitate. The word doesn’t come. “Floral-ly?” Your head pounds, and you shake your head, dark hair falling into your eyes. You brush it away, but the chunk of hair is too short. It flops back down. “Uh, sorry. I’m a little disoriented right now.” 

“Golly, you must be so confused.” It sounds more chipper now. “But don’t worry, your new friend Flowey is here to show you the ropes!” It tilts its head, and petals flutter in the motion. It peers at you. It frowns. (The hairs on the back of your neck prickle.) “You’re hurt.” 

“That’d be evident.” You glance up to see Flowey’s expression turn calculating. “I look pretty darn beat up, huh.” Then you pull your lips into a polite grin, hoisting your backpack. “Don’t worry about me,” you say. “I’ve got a first aid kit in my bag, and I just need a little time to defrost.” You start pulling supplies from the bag, rummaging inside to take out an alcohol infused swab to disinfect your cut. You clean the cut and pull a bandaid over it. It looks clumsy and ill-dressed. “All better, see?” you say. “You don’t look… convinced. I’m fine, really-”

“Let me help! What are friends for, anyways?” It winks. “I’ll fix ya up!” With that, you feel a tugging in your chest, and a cartoonish red heart draws itself out, hovering a couple inches off your chest. It slips through your fingers when you try to hold it. You feel vulnerable.

“No thanks,” you say, trying not to be rude. “I don’t need it.” Something about the flower seems off. Maybe its your social anxiety acting up. You try to walk away.

>SPARE

>FLEE

“Hold up, friendo _._ ” Its expression twists into an approximation of what you think is supposed to be a pleading look. A lazy star blinks trails around his stem, dissipating in the darkness. “See these ‘friendliness pellets’? They’ll heal you to full health again. I want to help you!“ Flowey widens his eyes. “Are you ready?” he says, grinning, “get as many as you can!” An array of white pellets appear, drifting towards you. The air tastes of ozone and flowers. You sidestep around them. 

“Flowey,” you say, weary, “I appreciate it, but you’re kind of getting on my nerves.” You turn your back on him and raise a hand in farewell. “Got places to go and all that.”  You nearly trip again, and attempt to keep some semblance of dignity. “See ya later.” (So much for that exit.)

Something sharp digs into your spine, and successive pangs of pain follow. You fall, and the impact jars your knees. A high pitched voice giggles. “Y O U   I D I O T,” says Flowey. Your eyelids droop. “You know what’s going on here, don’t you? You just wanted to see me suffer.” There is something bitter in his voice.”“Boy, and I thought I was overdoing it on the friend schtick.” It shifts closer, and leaves rustle. 

“Y-you…” 

“In this world, it’s KILL or be KILLED. Why would anyone pass up an opportunity like this? You already being nearly dead and all. I’m just finishing the job. Now,” it croons, as a ring of white pellets materialize around you, “DIE.”

The pellets close in. You watch your soul shatter.  

You wake on a bed of golden flowers, dazed and confused and ANGRY.

 

ooOoOoo

 

The sensation of flowers being crushed underfoot is satisfying, even if you dislike the scent. You work your vengeance on them as you pace around the area. You kick at a flower head. It scatters petals as the stem snaps, oozing sap. “Fuck,” you say, and the words feel childish in your mouth. “Fuck.” You feel like a rampaging toddler, and immediately stop. 

You just died. Or was it all a bad dream? Nervous energy thrums through your limbs. You dig your nails into the flesh of your palm. Ow. At least that rules it out.

So you’re Alice now, you think. What’s next? Talking cats? Mad beasts? A hysterical giggle burbles its way out of your chest. You stamp out the flickering panic in your chest. Time to break down later. Time to be a responsible adult and all. What a joke. 

You don’t want to die yet. Better not to linger too long, lest you catch the sights of _that_.

You take a trembling breath and edge around the clearing where you found the flower, trying to keep out of sight. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You creep behind a worn pillar. Your breath sounds unnaturally loud.

You spot it right away, a single golden flower. It hasn’t noticed you yet. Flowey’s face is turned away, and it sways, leaves and petals fluttering gently. There is no breeze. And it seems to be… Talking to itself? You don’t care enough to listen it. It seems distracted. You’ll take what you can get.

You pull your eyes beyond the flower, to the the archway behind it, marked with an unfamiliar crest. You turn your head to look around you. Pillars, flowers, rock face… Door. It seems to be your only escape.

You steel yourself, and start creeping around the flower. There isn’t much for cover besides the flowers at your feet, so you make quiet movements towards the door. You shift your weight to the balls of your feet. Something under it crunches.

“Howdy!” says Flowey, popping in front of you. You shriek. “You must have mistaken this as an exit. Let me correct you on that assumption!”

You stumble back. Your hands are shaking.

“Gosh, you look so scared,” says the flower. His smile curdles. “Aren’t ya pleased to see an old friend?”

Panic rises like bile in your throat. You get to your feet, and hurl your backpack at its face, ignoring the sudden cursing that starts behind you. You start running. You don’t get far.

A vine snakes around your ankles, and you whimper as it tightens, thorns biting into your skin. "Hold it right there, _buddy._ ” says the flower with an unnerving grin. "You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep on doing that," it says. "And who would want that?" It winks at you. "Don't'cha think its a bit rude, ignoring someone who wants to help you?"     

You feel something tugging at your ribs. There is something wrong, wrong, wrong… A red heart draws out of your chest.

"There ya go," says Flowey. Its eyes bore into yours. “You see, you have one thing that I want.” It pauses for dramatic effect. “Y O U R  S O U L.” Its face breaks into a jack-o-lantern grin. “I just need to borrow it from you.” The vine curls around your chest, inching towards the red heart hovering over it. You wheeze. Struggle. Cry for help, in the vain hopes that someone heard. (But nobody came.)

“ I’ll just rip it from you,” says Flowey, and a ring of white pellets surround you again. “ It’ll be like taking monster candy from a kid.”

"Fuck. You.” The words come unbidden from your mouth. You wish you could swallow it back, and say something witty. Or plead for your life. There is something surreal about the situation. 

"So! As I was so _rudely_ interrupted, we were discussing your SOUL. “ It leans over you. “Thanks in advance, _friend._ ” The pellets head towards you. You close your eyes.

A burst of light plays over your eyelids, followed by a rush of heat. The smell of charred flowers fill the clearing. The scent makes your head spin. You flop on your back and exhale, trying to calm your racing heart. A horned, goat-like creature stands across from you, with fine white fur and long lashes. Her brown eyes are tinged with red. She? wears a purple robe with white sleeves, and emblazoned on the chest is a strange symbol. Three triangles, with a winged circle above it. Curious. Did it mean anything? 

As she draws closer, you smell the scent of cinnamon and caramel? At least, something like it. She raises her hands to her mouth in a soft gasp. “What a terrible creature, torturing a poor, innocent youth…” There is something matronly about her, you think. 

She says something else, but you barely hear it. You ache all over and the murderous flower is nowhere to be seen. It’s a good time to rest, you think, as the darkness creeps in on the edges of your vision. You see her expression turn to concern. Perhaps this one will be courteous enough to refrain from shooting you in the back.


	2. Grim News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A place to stay, and a slice of butterscotch cinnamon pie. All things that keep you from where you want to be.

You wake in a warm bed. The quilts are tucked over you, and you linger there for an indeterminate amount of time, just revelling in the comfort. However, the pillow is too soft. You use a memory foam one at home. You open your eyes, still crusted with sleep. This isn’t your room.

Your hand itches. You scratch at it and find a cloth bandage, more effective than the cartoon covered one you had stuck on earlier. (Although some part of you was fond of it.) Everything hurts, but you sit up and throw the covers off, wincing as your aches and scrapes protest. The floor is cold under your feet. You fumble in the dark until you find the outline of a lamp. You turn it on. Its warm glow suffuses the room, and you take a proper look around the room for once. 

The color offends your eyes. Everything is orange. Yet somehow, it works. It feels like the essence of home, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and something vaguely caramel-ish in the air. If your host made a candle out of this, you think, they’d be a millionaire. 

There is a knitted carpet at your feet (definitely homemade, there’s care and love purled into every stitch) and a box of toys by the foot of your bed, next to the stuffed animals. They look well worn. You sleep carefully onto the carpet and make your way to the closet. There’s striped sweaters, in various colours, knitted with the same care as the rug is. You run a hand over the rack of sweaters. The wool is soft, and the sweaters look almost brand new. They are all too small for you. Below them are pairs of tiny shoes, of all varying sizes. Ballet shoes, sneakers, cowboy boots. You have a feeling that these shoes belonged to different owners. Again, with none of the wear you would expect a child would impart on it. Why were you in a child’s room? And there were too many questions, all unanswered. 

A flush of guilt runs over you for being so nosy. Perhaps you were too suspicious of your host, who’d generously dressed your wounds and cared for you. (You can’t trust anyone, can’t you?) You close the closet door, and don’t touch anything else. The curiosity gnaws at you. You pick up your backpack, resting against the foot of the bed, and walk to the door, the carpet soft against your feet. Your hand curls around the knob. You hesitate. Your heart flutters like a dying bird in your chest.

You move forwards.

The hallway is a cheerful yellow. You take in the simple, understated decoration- a few cattail-like shoots in earthenware vases, a golden flower in another, and you shudder. There is a mirror, too. You look at yourself.

Dark circles under mud-brown eyes, with skin somewhere between tan and sand. Dark hair in a bird’s nest around your face, jaw-length. It’s you. The girl in the mirror holds your stare. It looks judgemental. You turn away, and head towards the section where the yellow walls fade into an understated -cream color. There are stairs there. You pass by it. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

By now, you realize how tired you are. It seems that the amount of time spend lying on that bed has done barely any good. You stop, and wait for the black washing over your vision to fade. Another room, similar to the one prior. It has the air of a place well lived in. There is a dining table in the corner of the room, with a vase of fresh flowers. By the hearth: a large, oversized armchair. (It looks rather comfortable.) You feel at home.

There she is again, eyes crinkling in a smile that is equal parts warmth and matronly concern. The person? creature? holds a book in her hands. ‘There you are, my child,’ she says. ‘I am glad to see you well-rested.” She pulls a ribbon from the book’s spine and shuts it briskly, placing it in her lap. You catch a snatch of the title. Snails? How curious. You file that away for later. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Your face flushes a rosy color. “I mean, thank you for all your hospitality! I really appreciate it!” You grin shakily. A small part of you wonders how much of her demeanour is fake. She’s far too kind. Almost saccharine, perhaps, like a particular golden flower…   
‘I… Just have a couple questions for you. I’m not from around here.’ Great job, captain obvious. Way to make it awkward. 

“I will do my best to answer them.” 

You take in a breath. “Where are we?” You wave a lazy hand around. “I was on Mount Ebbot and then… Yeah. Like Dorothy, you know? Not in Kansas and all.” 

She blinks. Her lashes are distractingly long. ‘I do not know of this Dorothy or Kansas you speak of. But you are in the underground, my child. This area is called the Ruins, and this is my home.’ 

’Excuse me, Mrs… I’m sorry,’ you say with hesitation, ‘I haven’t gotten your name., haven’t I?’

‘You may call me Toriel, child.’

You hold out a hand. “Pleased to meet you Toriel,” you say. Her hand is warm and furred. ‘Although… I thought I should mention that I’m not a child anymore. I look young for my age, ha, but I’m considered a young adult. ’ You can feel yourself cringing internally. ‘So… sorry about that.’

“I must apologize” she says. There is a bitter smile on her face. “At my age, everyone seems young.” She falls silent. You’ve never been good with silences. Too many things left unsaid, and too little to say. The moment passes quickly,. “Forgive an old woman her memories,” says Toriel, rising from her armchair. Remarkably for her size, she moves with a dancer’s grace. “You must be hungry. I have prepared some food for you. “Please, have a seat. I will be with you shortly.” She walks briskly to the kitchen.

You set down your bag and take a seat. The sound of cutlery and dishes ring from the kitchen. Toriel returns with a tray, holding two teacups and two plates of pie. It smells of cinnamon and vanilla and something vaguely caramel. You can’t quite place the caramel scent. She places the pie and tea in front of you, along with a fork. You pick up the fork. It feels like the only solid thing here.

“You do not dislike cinnamon or butterscotch, do you?” she asks, a little worriedly, taking a seat adjacent. “I wasn’t sure of your preferences.”

“No, no,” you say. “I haven’t tried butterscotch, but I like cinnamon. It smells delightful,” you say. “Thank you.” And you dig in.

The pie is delicious. A tad rich, but it is spiced to perfection and not overly sweet. You eat another forkful, and that’s when you stop, fingers still clutching at the metal fork. You’ve never felt so far from home. There are no chopsticks in your hands. No rice, no side dishes, no kimchi. You force yourself to take another bite. It tastes like ashes.

You blink away tears, and school your face into a blank slate. Thankfully, Toriel hasn’t noticed. 

“So, Toriel, what do you do down here?” you ask. She looks up from her slice of pie. 

“I tend to the Ruins. A quiet life, I suppose, but it is rather peaceful. Someone has to tend to the flowers, after all.”

You lean in closer. “Do you know of any way to get back home? I mean, back up to the surface? I assume you’d know after living here for a while.” Toriel stiffens. “I’m sorry,” you say, looking down. “Did I say something wrong?”

You feel like you’ve stepped on all the landmines you could possibly step on in all your conversations with her. You take a gulp of tea to occupy your hands. The tea is still scalding. You can’t taste it.

“Why do you want to leave so soon?” she asks. Her gaze is distant. It feels like she’s looking through you, to a memory of someone else. You don’t like it. “Let your wounds heal. There is no rush.”

“Please,” you say, “I need to go back.”

“There is nothing but pain and sorrow beyond these walls. Stay a while. It is safe here.”

“What pain? Why isn’t it safe? I can handle it, Toriel. I’m not a child.” 

“Your exit lies beyond the doors of the Ruins. To the Barrier.” In response to your confused look, she continues. “Composed of magic and malice, it keeps us trapped under this mountain. Even you are subject to it.” Her expression darkens. “Seven souls to shatter the barrier. Six fallen children. You are the seventh.” She shakes her head disdainfully. “Hmph. It is a foolish endeavour, to venture out of the safety of the Ruins. There is nothing for you there. Leave if you must, but know that Asgore, the King of Monsters, will take your soul.”

“I have to,” you say. You are a little surprised at your response. You are not a brave person. Nor a very athletic one. But you know that you cannot stay here, in this little house. It is too small, and you have amends to make up there. “Show me the way.”

“Follow me.” 

You sling your bag over your shoulders. Then you follow her down the stairs down to the basement. She leads you mechanically through winding corridors, until you reach the doorway. She stops before it. Her back is turned to you.

“I cannot stop even a single child,” she says, voice cold. “Is there anything I can say to dissuade you from this madness?”

You shake your head.

“Very well."

You walk towards the exit. You turn to face Toriel. Her face is like granite. “Thank you for everything, ” you say quietly, and “and sorry that I couldn’t do more for you. It was nice knowing you.” You wave at her. She doesn’t wave back. 

You square your shoulders, and walk through the doorway to the outside world with a confidence that you don’t feel. There are more corridors beyond you, leading through another doorway. Your steps echo through them. You think you see a flash of yellow in the corner of your eye. It could be just your imagination, but the sight of it unnerves you.

The final door lies ahead of you, embossed with that familiar rune. The only way is forwards. You push open the doors, and step outside.


	3. Promises yet to be made

The doors to the ruins close with a solid thunk. You take in the snow dusted evergreens, and the path under your feet, leading across a wooden bridge-like structure. Once again, you are alone in the cold. A situation you’ve been finding yourself in more recently. 

A branch snaps behind you. You jump at the sound, drawing your shoulders together, and turn around. Nothing but broken wood and snow. You scan the trees for any sign of movement. 

‘Hello?’ you call. ‘Who’s there?’ Your voice is swallowed up by the howling of the wind. You wait there, shivering. There is no answer.

You turn back and hurry away, heart pounding in your chest. You grip the strap of your bag with clumsy fingers, switching hands to put them in your pockets. They feel like frozen fish sticks. Your mitts are nowhere to be found.

A shadow flits between the trees. You pause, and survey the area once more. Once again, an unfruitful search.

“Coward,” you say, “come out to meet me face to face.” It comes out more shakier than you’d like. The air tastes like ozone, crackling with something electric. 

You can feel a gaze crawling over your back. You turn to look over your shoulder, and the world becomes a blinding blue-white. It hurts and you can’t breathe and-

Your soul shatters. Darkness greets you once more.

 

You wake in a bed of golden flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buddy... you'd be dead where you stand.

**Author's Note:**

> Purely self indulgent. Lacks editing, but I hope it is interesting. Feel free to comment or ask me anything!


End file.
